


The Moral of the Story

by damalur



Series: Conceits [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Humor, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Varric ever wrote an autobiography, it would be cataloged as a farce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moral of the Story

**Author's Note:**

> A thing you may not have known about me is that Hawke/Varric is apparently the hill I am willing to die on. This discovery courtesy of the Dragon Age Kink Meme. OOPS. Uh, if you don't remember [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHZ3LJbXN5Q), it...it probably won't help the following story make any more sense, but it's PRETTY GREAT ANYWAY (said the totally biased author).

**One: What Lavellen Noticed**

She was first struck by the way Varric offered Hawke his hand.

Aredhel was playing chess in the corner of the tavern with Cullen, an occurrence that was now frequent enough it probably counted as a tradition, if still a highly formal one—he called her "Inquisitor" and she called him "Commander" and they never played in the privacy of someone's quarters. Hawke, who had recently returned from her errand to Weisshaupt, was across the room, engaged in a drinking contest with the Iron Bull that she appeared to be _winning._

It was more than a little astonishing. "How is she doing that?" Aredhel said.

Cullen rolled his eyes. "Through long experience, Inquisitor, I have found it's best not to ask." He seemed only grudgingly acquiescent about Hawke taking up semi-permanent residence with the Inquisition, although Aredhel knew he actually held her in great respect. Part of his problem appeared to be that Hawke egged on everyone around her; the Bull and his Chargers were drinking stupendous quantities of beer, Varric's tales were getting taller, Sera's pranks were growing more ridiculous, and Dorian's speeches about the majesty of Tevinter were...actually, those hadn't changed, although the vitriol he directed at the Venatori had grown even more creative.

As she watched, Hawke slammed her flagon on the table and bowed with a flourish. The Chargers roared with approval, the Bull toasted her, and Varric leaned back in his chair, smirking. Hawke wiped the foam from her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned over to say something to him; he nodded, stood, and followed her to the staircase. What followed struck Aredhel as subtly out of character; as the pair reached the stairs, Varric stood aside and offered his hand. Hawke took it lightly and let him guide her up the first few steps, which he did as delicately as some human lord handing a high-born lady into a carriage. Neither of them broke their conversation, the moment there and gone again as they vanished to the upper floor.

"Is something the matter?" Cullen asked.

"...No," Aredhel said. "No, Commander, I apologize. I was distracted." She looked back at the board and blinked; he'd caught her from behind with one of his clerics.

He smirked at her. "I understand that's a common affliction among elves," he teased. "It's said they don't have the attention span for the game."

"What a pity," she said, and used one of her towers to put him in check. "But at least we aren't as undeservedly arrogant as humans, am I right, Commander?"

"Humans," he agreed. "What pricks." She had to turn her head to smother her laughter, and the curiosity about Hawke and Varric was driven from her thoughts for the time being.

But not for long, because Varric never shut up about Hawke.

On this particular occasion Aredhel had stopped to show him a particular text she'd found that spoke of red lyrium. Skyhold's library, already sizable, was growing rapidly, and having access to it was almost as useful as being able to pick the brains of other apostates and of Circle mages alike; the Dalish magical tradition was by necessity narrow in its scope. Their conversation wandered from the original topic, as conversations often did with Varric, and after listening him spin a new line of bullshit about his crossbow, she found herself being told a rather unbelievable tale about Hawke attending Duke Such-and-Such's wyvern hunt.

"Varric," she interrupted.

"And then Hawke said—"

"Varric."

"What?" he said, folding his burly arms across his chest. He really was very different now that Hawke was back; less subdued, maybe, or simply less sad.

It was none of her business, and she knew it, but she couldn't stop herself from saying, "What does Bianca think of how much you talk about Hawke?"

He blinked. "Shit, you think she cares? Nah, she and Hawke get along fine. I even let Hawke handle her once. That woman is a terrible shot—never let her near a crossbow if you care about your life."

"All right," Aredhel said. "Let me know what you think of that interpretation, won't you? Dagna is working to develop an enchantment to resist the corrupting influence of red lyrium, but I...am inclined to believe that danger there isn't worth the reward."

"Sure thing, Inquisitor," he said, and then he shrugged. "I tend to agree with you—that crap isn't worth messing with, but the more we know, the better."

Should she say more? It wasn't her place, and whatever his arrangement with Bianca might or might not involve, it had been standing since long before Varric had come to the Inquisition. Six years ago, even six _months_ , she would have bitten her tongue and carried on without offering counsel…

But surely he should _know?_

"Varric," she said, slowly. "I wasn't talking about your _crossbow."_

She only saw the shock on his face because she was looking for it; he was too good a gambler to let it show for long, but for that instant she had his complete and utter attention. It made her think of the way he had dragged Hawke back from the brink of the Fade all those months ago in Adamant, and she recalled that he had lied to Cassandra's face, to the Right Hand of the Divine, under risk of death, simply to keep Hawke safe.

And then he was the consummate storyteller again, mouth curling up on one side. "Have you been raiding Cassandra's stash again? It's bad enough that she likes _my_ romance serials, but I know she reads worse. At least I can spell." He shook his head in mock disapproval. "You know, after Hawke became Champion, there was more awful smut about her than there was about the Hero of Ferelden, and that's saying something. I think a friend of ours even wrote some of it." He turned his face and looked at the fire.

"All right," Aredhel said again. 

She left him there by the fireside. It was snowing outside; she sneezed twice, pulled up her hood, and went in search of someone less inclined to bullshit himself.

-

**Two: What Tethras Noticed**

Look, it wasn't like he was a moron. He'd noticed Bianca getting tetchy when he mentioned Hawke. Actually, that wasn't quite the word—she'd been annoyed at first, although she'd masked it as well as she did everything else, and then she'd been amused in a secretive way that was downright obnoxious. Of course, he'd only seen her a handful of times since he'd invited a human apostate to join his brother's Deep Roads expedition, but Bianca and him? They didn't change. That was the point.

But something _had_ changed. He'd noticed it the last time he'd seen her in Kirkwall, a couple of months before shit really started flying with Meredith; she'd been more inclined to mention her husband, he'd been more interested in telling her about Bartrand than getting her into bed. And this past time, when she'd made the hard trek to Skyhold...well, that had been pretty damn peculiar.

He didn't want to admit it, but it was possible the Inquisitor was on to something. She could be a stupidly blunt woman, _literally_ stupid until Ruffles finally drilled some discretion into her head, but she did offer a rare outside perspective on his relationships, and more than that, she didn't buy into his line of crap. He respected that in most woman, notwithstanding Hawke, who was always more willing to help him spin his crap to awe-inspiring new heights. She talked a good game herself, did Hawke, although at least she could back it up.

After the Inquisitor left, he took the book she'd brought up to his room. He had nice quarters in one of the towers. There was a fireplace. Hawke liked that; her feet got cold as easily as his did. With the wall-hangings it was almost cozy, although it had nothing on his suite at the Hanged Man back home.

There were papers on every available flat surface; a lot of them related to his business holdings, some were discarded drafts he hadn't bothered to send to his editors, and a few were letters. He wrote to Aveline regularly, and to Carver Hawke, who was always pestering Varric for news of his sister. Marian herself wasn't much of a letter-writer, although Varric had a couple of notes from her tucked away with his will. He had copies of most of the important letters he'd written, too, having learned through hard experience the value of having an extra on hand.

His exchanges with Bianca lived in a long carved box made of walnut; the silver hinges were tarnished with age. He had them stored in chronological order, but it still took a little digging to find the first one he'd written after meeting Hawke. Hard to figure out if she'd walked into his life in 9:31 or 9:32, but then he came across the series of short, angry outbursts he'd sent after Bartrand betrayed him and worked backward from there.

 _I met the craziest apostate,_ he'd written. _She's looking to make some quick money, and I convinced her to sign on to Bartrand's latest scheme. Maker knows that bastard needs the funding…_

He'd made it up to 9:37 Dragon when the same crazy apostate knocked on his door and let herself in without invitation. "Varric!" she said. "There you are. Lady Montilyet tried to rope me into another hand of Wicked Grace. I'm sensing danger there."

Varric opened his mouth to warn her off when he realized that if she kept playing with Ruffles, there was a chance—albeit a small one, Hawke was a decent hand at cards—that she'd end up naked.

Aw, fuck.

Oblivious to his internal crisis, Hawke pulled up a chair and kicked her feet up on his desk. She was out of her usual armor—must have borrowed clothes from someone. Probably Morrigan; the two of them were holy terrors together, and they shared the same sense of magpie fashion that seemed like an apostate necessity. Anders used to look like he'd gotten dressed in the dark from a scrap heap, too.

"Which only made me think of Isabela, of course," Hawke was saying. "I do wonder what she and Fenris are up to. If we make it through this whole mess alive, I'd like to go pirating with them again. Well, it isn't piracy so much as waging a private war on slave traders, but Isabela still gets in a spot of theft every now and then."

She brushed her dark, shaggy fringe out of her face. Hawke was a looker, there was no denying that—human, sure, and willowy, but with legs a league long and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. She was a rock, too, and remarkable; there was no denying her power, or her will, or the bleeding heart that hid beneath all the bluster and terrible puns.

"She'd hate it here," Hawke continued. "This place is about as landlocked as it gets. Cullen seems improved, though, doesn't he? Nice to see he's finally pulled that stick out of his arse."

Varric cursed under his breath and went back to the letters, starting over again from the beginning. 9:34—he mentioned Hawke in every letter, on every _page_. Bianca's responses were blankly laconic. 9:35—Hawke was over everything, or behind it; even when he didn't mention her explicitly, he was relaying conversations he'd had with her, things they'd done together, the opinions she'd shared with him during their long evenings talking in the Hanged Man or on Kirkwall's docks. 9:36, 9:37—he asked cursorily after Bianca, told her he supported her if she and her husband were trying for a kid, and then went off on a three-page diatribe about Leandra Hawke and how the woman managed to screw with her daughter's head even after her death. In retrospect, maybe that was a little harsh; Hawke had nothing for respect for Leandra, right up to the very end, but Varric had never been able to curb that blindly protective instinct when it came to Marian.

Aw, _fuck._ He was in love with her.

"Everyone else has these tiny Orlesian candies," Hawke said, completely oblivious. "I don't know where they're coming from. Cole gave me one to try. They taste like that candied ginger you used to be able to get in Hightown." She was close enough to touch; it'd be easy as anything to reach over and tip her into his lap. Fucking fuckity _fuck._

The weirdness with Bianca—last time he'd seen her face-to-face, she'd turned her cheek to him when he'd leaned in to kiss her. "Aw, Varric, I think it's time to let that go," she'd said. He'd been sore about it, frustrated that she'd turned him away, although not as frustrated as he should have been. "You'll figure it out eventually, sugar," she had told him; at the time, he thought she'd been trying to let him down easy because she'd fallen for that nug-humper she called a husband.

Bianca had worked it out before he had. Figured. 

And there was Hawke, still chattering along merrily. Okay, he loved her, but what was he supposed to _do_ about it? They functioned well on the level of drinking buddies and lasting friends, but in the entire time he'd known her, Hawke had never built any steady romantic relationship. Oh, there was a fling every once in a while, and he'd never quite been able to nail down her friendship with Fenris and Isabela, but he'd always believed one of two things: either that Hawke was like him, bound by some tragic farce of a love story, or that in romance as in all things, she refused to be chained.

No, it was probably better to keep this to himself. He and Hawke could continue on their charted course, and even if his relationship with Bianca changed in tenor, the substance would be the same; he doubted she'd ever be entirely out of his life, even if they were now learning to function on the level of old friends and former flames rather than lovers torn apart too soon.

"I don't think you're even listening to me," Hawke complained. "Also, I should be receiving some sort of stipend from the Inquisition, I think. Expert Advisor Hawke, that could be my title, although I suppose I'm hardly an expert if Corypheus is up and walking around after I killed him. All that practice, and I still can't get the killing part right."

What would their life even be like? Traipsing around the world, fighting abominations together? It was a fair enough plan in the short term, but in the long run Varric would rather settle down somewhere nice, preferably by the sea, even more preferably with a well-stocked wine cellar. He had a feeling Hawke wouldn't object to any of that, although if he was honest, it was likely that one of them would follow the other to that pleasantly improbable fantasy home even if they weren't sleeping together.

Andraste's shiny ass, though—did he ever want to sleep with her. He wanted to tumble her back onto his sheets and strip off her leggings and find out if she laughed as much in bed as she did out of it. The revelations were coming fast and hard tonight. Fuck, he hadn't done this much self-reflection in years.

Unless...what if there was a way to see if she was amenable to the idea without tipping his hand?

"I knew you weren't paying attention to me," Hawke said. She was smiling crookedly as she teased him. "Always so busy with your papers. What is it tonight, crime serials? Adventure stories? Romance?"

"Just reading some old letters to Bianca," he said. Maybe he could start out propositioning her as a joke, or imply that he was just looking to blow off stress with a friend. No, that was no good, he didn't want to trick her into it.

"Ah," Hawke said. Her crooked grin faltered.

-

**Three: What Hawke Noticed**

Reading old letters to Bianca. Of course. No wonder he was so intent. Really, there was no reason for Hawke to be snotty, not even in the privacy of her own head; it was hard to complain when she had as much of him as she had. Varric was always perfectly willing to walk into fire to watch her back, or to spend his evenings sharing stories of her daring deeds that were only distantly related to reality, or to track down candied ginger when she wouldn't shut up about it.

In fact (Hawke thought, warming to the topic), it was almost like they had an unspoken arrangement. Hawke was allowed to watch Varric's hands as he talked and then use that memory to get herself off later in private, and Varric was allowed to drop everything he was doing when Hawke needed him for something important, for instance: fighting demons, or: finding candied ginger.

It was possible Varric was screwed by the arrangement, but at least he didn't know he was being screwed. Didn't know he wasn't being screwed? Having feelings was exhausting; at times like this, Hawke almost envied the Tranquil.

"I hear the Inquisitor got to meet her!" she said, brightly. "Your Bianca, that is."

"Yeah," said Varric. "About that." He leaned back in his chair so they were at right angles to one another. He had this thing he did where he propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and then settled his chin into his palm with two fingers extended against his cheek; it certainly did not make him look rakish.

"The Inquisitor had a couple of things to say on the topic of you," he said.

Hawke sighed dramatically. "People _always_ have things to say about me. It's often your fault."

Varric was displaying an unusual unwillingness to play along; instead of smirking, he rubbed his hand along his jawline. "Specifically," he said, "about the way you feel about me."

Oh.

Oh, no.

Hawke, who was known for keeping a cool head even in the bloodiest, demoniest, most dire situations, began slightly to panic. "Is that—is that so?" she said. "I was rather irate at you for packing up to join the Inquisition without telling me, so you'd better buy me a round at the tavern to make up for it."

He looked at her and said, "Marian"— _shit_ —"I know."

She wanted to stand. She wanted to run; quite a lot easier if she ran now, and no one would think less of her for it. Well, Varric might, but sod his opinion.

If only it were that easy.

"Yes," she said. "Well." She looked up at the ceiling and hoped her voice came out even. "There's no need to make a fuss about it or...or let me down gently, or whatever."

Varric choked. Interesting; she hadn't anticipated that development.

"Shit," he said. "You're serious? I was just fishing."

Oh, she was well and truly fucked now. Her own fault—by this point she should've been able to recognize when he was bluffing, or at very least had the wisdom to play her cards closer to her chest. Still, it might be possible to salvage the situation with a bit of quick thinking.

Right. Quick thinking. Any minute now.

The problem was that it still _hurt_. The hurt was old and familiar, almost companionably so, but she'd never imagined he would figure her out. Yes, all right, perhaps when she was much younger, before that business with the Arishok, she'd had fleeting fantasies about Varric deciding he was finished pining for his lost lady love and then taking her, Hawke, to bed—only her, always her, for the rest of his life—but even at twenty she'd dismissed the entire notion as foolishness. Varric like dwarves, not humans; he was in love with Bianca, not Hawke.

Anyway, it wasn't as though Hawke was slowly bleeding out for love of him. She'd seen what love did to people. It made them messy, sloppy, careless, selfish. It used them up. It chained them down, and Hawke would never permit herself to be chained.

"This _is_ embarrassing." She was trying for flippant, but something sounded off; she cleared her throat and tried again. "Look," she said, "Varric. It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't _matter,"_ he repeated, sounding stupefied.

"Of course not," Hawke said. "And I haven't let it affect anything, have I? I won't let it."

"You won't _let_ it," he repeated, still maddeningly blank.

Her chest felt tight. She very much did not want to talk about this and had a dawning terror that he was going to give her shit over the whole situation. Hawke could brave almost anything, but she was not sure she could brave his ridicule. Or perhaps he would be kind—let her down gently, all the rot that would undoubtedly be worse.

"Well, I haven't yet, have I?" she said, going for a laugh and missing the mark. "I'll tell you what, why don't we both forget about this entire conversation. What _were_ we talking about? Bianca, was it?"

She had conducted her monologue while staring at the wall; her chair was tipped back and her legs were still up on the corner of Varric's desk, points for nonchalance, but the main problem was that he was between her and the door, blocking the chance of exit by that avenue. Any minute now she'd make her escape; it would have to be through the window.

Unfortunately, all of that, including the way her eyes were glued to the wall, meant she missed the build-up to what Varric did next. One minute her mouth was flapping while she calculated the distance from the windowsill to the ground, and the next she was tipping sideways, out of her chair and into Varric's lap.

He'd taken her so off-guard that she almost missed it when he kissed her, and then she could think of nothing else. He smelled like leather and hops; his lips were chapped against hers, and when her mouth opened under his in a gasp of shock, he took full advantage, tugging at her lower lip with his teeth before he covered her mouth and swallowed her gasp.

A decade of fantasies, and she hadn't even come close.

She'd landed off-balance, her legs hanging off one side while Varric supported her back, but now his hands urged her to move so she was straddling him. Well. That _was_ nice, wasn't it? He ran one of his hands from her rear down the back of her thigh and used the bend of her knee to tug her even closer against him, and Hawke decided it wouldn't be too forward of her at this juncture to grind down. 

Oh. _Oh._

She did it again, and Varric laughed against her throat, his beard stubble chafing her skin in a way that was absolutely much better than what Hawke had imagined. She glanced down; they were pressed together as tightly as two people who were still clothed could be, and yes, those were definitely his hips between her legs—surely he could feel how wet she was even through the fabric of her leggings?

Overwhelmed, Hawke buried her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder and ground against him for a third time. This time, Varric did not laugh; he groaned and then said, his breath hot against her, _"Sweetheart."_

What caused her to lash out was blind, animal instinct—certainly if she'd stopped to think about it, she would have shoved all those troublesome feelings away, girded her metaphorical sword, and done her best to keep up with the new mode of friends who happened to fuck. She wasn't above letting him trample all over her more intimate fantasies in the name of helping him get his dick wet; while she might have learned something about facing her problems in the past few years, she hadn't learned so much that she was willing to throw away possibility one: Varric in her bed and still in love with Bianca, in favor of possibility two: Varric _not_ in her bed and still in love with Bianca.

But part of her screamed at the realization, part of her rebelled, and Hawke, unthinking and panicked, scrambled away, out of his lap and back over his desk.

"I can't," she said. Her voice cracked.

Varric's chest was heaving; she'd never seen him look so undone before. The sight was both thrilling and heartbreaking, rather like a dragon when it died.

"Hawke—"

"No," said Hawke. "I can't. I'm sorry, I know it's in good fun but I—" She swallowed. What was it Mother had always said? _Chin up, Marian._ Might as well tell him the truth, she couldn't ruin their friendship any further than she already had. "I know it's good fun for you, but it's all or nothing for me, Varric."

He stared at her, his eyes amber in the candlelight. "All or nothing, huh?" he said.

"Yes," she said, and then added, "or we could forget about all of this, have I mentioned that as an option?"

"Hawke, Andraste herself could appear and dance a striptease, and I still wouldn't forget 'all of this.' Nice try."

"Right," Hawke said. Where had her dignity gone? It was somewhere around here, wasn't it? "I'll just go, then, that's probably best. Don't you think? I do. Things to do, monsters to slay and such…" Probably a good night to get drunk. Maker, she wished Isabela were here, Isabela knew all the best mixed drinks.

"Oh, you're shitting me," Varric said. "You aren't going anywhere, sweetheart—like hell are you running away from this."

Oh well fuck him very much. "I'm sorry," Hawke said, "when did this become a democracy? I can make my escape whenever I want, thank you, even out the window if I so desire—"

"Nope," said Varric. 

_"Excuse_ me?"

"You heard me." He leaned forward, eyes glittering, and put a hand on either side of her, trapping her against the desk. "For one thing, you should know I was lying—"

 _"Shocking,"_ Hawke hissed.

"The Inquisitor didn't say anything about how you felt about me," Varric said. He was starting to look pissed. Good. "Actually, she wanted to talk about how _I_ felt about _you."_

Hawke's heart, broken, faulty thing that it was, stopped. "What?" she said.

"Andraste's tits," Varric said. "You want all or nothing? Hawke, I was all in the minute I laid eyes on you. Just took me a little while to figure it out."

"What?" said Hawke again.

"Oh, fuck it," Varric said, and then he hauled her back into his lap and kissed her. Hawke let herself be kissed, too angry and puzzled and upset to really comprehend and too turned on to object, but at the point his hand started working up the front of her top, she pulled back.

"You mean," she said, "that you…"

"Yeah," said Varric.

"And you and…"

"All over with." His clever fingers were tracing the crease on the underside of her breasts.

"And it's not a problem that I…?"

"Marian," he said. "Does it look like I have a problem?"

Ah, here came the quick thinking again. "It certainly _feels_ like it," Hawke teased. She was far happier than she really had a right to feel when Kirkwall was in shambles and Corypheus was marching on Thedas, but then, when it came down to it, Hawke was an opportunist. Yes, she decided, this was _much_ better than small Orlesian candies.

Varric let his forehead fall against her breastbone. "Shit," he said, and snorted. "This is going to be some ride."

"Sorry, would you prefer I find some other ride?"

He grabbed at her hips, his hands so tight she would probably be bruised tomorrow. Hawke shuddered, feeling entirely delicious. _"No,"_ he said, and then in a maneuver so fast she didn't see it coming, he rolled to his feet, took three steps to the bed, and dumped her onto it. 

"I'm going to take my trousers off now," Hawke announced.

Varric smirked at her. "I don't think you deserve the pleasure," he said, and then he stripped her of her boots and peeled her leggings down behind. Hawke yanked off her three layers of tops and somehow became tangled with the sheets in the process; when she finally freed her head, the linens were twisted around her hips and Varric, now without boots himself, was kneeling between her spread legs.

"You don't waste time, do you?" There was something like wonder in his tone.

All in. Well, why not? "Do you remember that evening—it was a few months after we first met—that I got completely pissed and tried to set Carver on fire?"

He chuckled; his hands were on the insides of her knees. "I remember."

"You took me upstairs and let me sleep it off in your bed," said Hawke. His hands were higher now, on the inside of her thighs.

"You kept trying to get me to sing some Ferelden marching song with you."

"Which you refused—ah. Oh my." He was running a finger across the sheet now—normally not a problem, except that the sheet was plastered over Hawke's cunt.

"Nng," she said. "Where was I? Oh, yes—you know that I didn't go directly to sleep? I have to confess that I engaged in some rather untoward behavior."

"In _my bed,"_ Varric said.

"In your bed," Hawke confirmed. It was nice to finally air that shameful little act out and find that it wasn't shameful so much as…

Oh, look. Varric was kissing her again.

"In my _bed,"_ he said again. "And you couldn't have been much older than...shit."

"I take it you don't object?"

"That you crawled into my bed to touch your pussy?" said Varric. 

Hawke rolled him over, bracing her hands on his broad chest; he'd lost his tunic somewhere along the way, although his trousers, regrettably, remained intact. "We should really set down some ground rules before this goes any further," she said.

Varric appeared entirely distracted by her nipples. "What?" he said.

"For one thing," said Hawke, "'pussy?' What's wrong with 'cunt?'"

Apparently her tits were only fascinating until someone started questioning his wordplay. "What's wrong with 'pussy?'" he said. "It's a good word."

"I like 'cunt' better," said Hawke. "Ask Cassandra, she'd probably agree with me. Or 'quim,' that has a nice ring to it."

"I'm a dwarf, we don't say 'quim,'" Varric protested.

"Well, you aren't always writing about dwarves, are you?"

There was a moment of suspicious silence, and then Varric said, "I knew it. I knew you were lying when you said you didn't read my books."

"Cunt," Hawke said in retort.

"All right, I get the picture. Don't tell me you like 'dick' better than 'cock.'"

"Oh no," Hawke said, now thoroughly cheerful. "Cock is fine by me."

Varric looked at her. Hawke looked back. The air crackled—or perhaps that was the fire—and then they rushed together to divest Varric of his trousers. Somehow they ended the way they had started: with Hawke sitting in Varric's lap while he mouthed at her throat.

She groaned as she slid down on his cock; he was _thick_. A decade of fantasies couldn't compare to the reality. Somewhat uncharacteristically, Hawke found that the way he touched her paled to the way he looked at her, warm and wry and astonished.

"Fuck," she said, _"Varric—"_

"...'Hawke groaned breathlessly.'"

"You—ffff." She bit her lip. "You use too many adverbs."

"...'Hawke commented, unaware that the dwarf already had an editor.'"

"You know I hate it when you do that," said Hawke.

"Sweetheart," Varric said, "you're getting love and hate all mixed up again."

"...'The dwarf incorrectly theorized,'" Hawke added. Varric laughed, and the sound of his deep laughter spurred her to lean down and kiss him again, and again, and once more, in an effort to make up for lost time.

She couldn't resist. Story of her life.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Moral of the Story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681680) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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